


Kintsugi

by Christine_Erin_Keyson



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Sherlock Holmes, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Pining Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes Has a Heart, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:34:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27684331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Christine_Erin_Keyson/pseuds/Christine_Erin_Keyson
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is a broken man. He's been broken his whole life.He feels things differently. He doesn't feel them "that way". He isn't attracted to people, and even though his brother is partly wrong, he's also partly right. While he isn't alarmed by sex, he also doesn't feel the need to engage in it. He can't make himself participate. Not fully, not with all this feeling and want and need and lust.Sherlock does not deserve to be loved because he's broken. He's meant to be alone. Destined to die alone.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 14
Kudos: 120





	1. Broken

**Author's Note:**

> The following story is fictional. The characters belong to Sherlock BBC and their original inspirational world to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. It's a fanfiction, the story may differ from the canon. I don't earn money from my writings, and they only ever have an entertainment purpose.

He's told he's not normal.

He knew all his life. He always was like that. Different. Odd.

Weird. Broken.

A freak.

He's been told that he does not deserve love. Who could love him, anyway?

He shouldn't be allowed to dream of it. He'll never have it. He doesn't need it, because he's not normal. He doesn't deserve to be loved. He's unlovable.

When he met John, he just couldn't help himself. The ex-soldier has been glowing like a burst of sunshine. He, the freak, had been blinded by his light. A conductor of light. A miracle.

Wow, he thought back then. Wow, he thinks now. Wow, he thinks every freaking time he sees the man—this gorgeous, kind, unbelievable man.

But he's a freak. He's not allowed those things that normal people do. Normal people are boring. John Watson is not. Sherlock wishes he could not-be-bored with him for the rest of his life.

Yet it cannot be. He's broken, and his sharp edges would cut John. They would tear his heart apart. He would hurt him. The only person he truly cares about would bleed out. Freaks do that to others. Still, it feels like he's the one bleeding, dying.

The blonde is brave and loyal. He's perfect. How could he love someone as damaged as Sherlock Holmes? He couldn't. He wouldn't.

Sherlock does not deserve to be loved because he's broken. He's meant to be alone. Destined to die alone.

He reminds himself that each time Donovan calls him his right name. He reminds himself that each time Anderson spits his nickname at him. He reminds himself that when John's newest girlfriend yells at him what could be his surname.

He didn't mean to upset her. To offend her. But he did, of course he did. He's a freak. Weirdo. Monster.

He curls tighter on himself, making a small ball on his bed, under the duvets. Smaller, smaller, smaller. If he could make himself go invisible, he would. He wishes he could vanish with a snap of his fingers.

He just wants John to be happy. Why is it so hard, anyway?

There's a soft knocking on his door. He ignores it. He's not there. He's small, small, small. Working on vanishing.

John sits down next to him. The duvet is carefully pulled off of him. He squints his eyes, brim with tears. There's too much light, and it's all John's fault.

"Hey. You okay?"

Sherlock doesn't bother answering. He's most certainly not okay. Never was. There's something wrong with him. He's all wrong. And when one is wrong, one can't be right. Therefore he can't be alright, either. So no, he's not okay and never ever will be.

"Sherlock..." The doctor's voice is so, so soft. He brushes few strands of the ebony curls off of the pale forehead. "Jesus. You're shaking..."

It's such a stupid deduction that he's sure he should snap at him... He should be angry at him. But he can't. He can't be angry at John. He loves him. But he's not supposed to feel things that way. He doesn't want him, not like that. Because he's broken and he can't. So he shouldn't have fallen for him. It's not fair to John. It's not fair at all.

He soaks the mattress underneath his sharp cheeks. Nothing is fair. 

"Christ. I'm so, so sorry." John whispers and Sherlock's mouth lets an awful sound escape. It's so close to a whimper, a sob, that he wants to die here and now. "Alright. That's enough." 

He waits. He predicts a fist, a kick, a wild force of anger. He predicts rage and disgust. He predicts sadness and guilt, mixed together. He does not expect John to pull him into his arms, hugging his trembling figure, embracing all the broken mess that he is. Holding all those pieces of him together. His hand is drawing soothing circles on his back, the other one lost in his hair. 

"I need you to breathe with me, okay? You have to calm down." 

"J-john..." 

"Shhh. It's alright. I'm here. I've got you. Copy my breathing, okay?" 

He sobs into his chest, torn apart and embarrassed. He feels John breathing beneath his face. He can feel his heart beating, strong and steady. John's always strong and steady. He is the only certainty in his chaotic world—a safe haven.

He tries to match his breathing because John asked him to. He would do anything for that man. Anything at all. He would stop breathing altogether if it made John Watson happy. 

"I'm so sorry." John pulls him closer, whispering in his hair. "I'll never see her again."

Sherlock cries, getting John's hideous jumper damp. He secretly loves this jumper. It brings out the blue of John's eyes. He loves his eyes. They're kind and caring. It calms him whenever he looks at them. 

He does not want to mess up with John's dates. He does not want to make him stop going to dates just because the women he dates hate him. Most of the people do. It's just a matter of time until John realizes there's a reason to that. He is a monster, after all.

He just wants John to be happy, even if it means he's happy without him in his life. 

"It's okay, Sherlock. I promise. I've got you. You're alright." 

Sherlock sniffs and hugs his doctor tighter. He isn't really his, but if this is the best he can get, he's gonna take it. Just for once. He wants to feel like a normal human being. He wants to feel John close, as if he cares, as if he would if he knew all about him. As if he'd stay. 

The ex-soldier draws another soothing circle into his back. His chin is resting on the top of Sherlock's head. They're quiet for a while. Sherlock doesn't say it's not alright. Nothing about this situation is alright. And he is not okay. He will never be. He's broken. And John will leave once he realizes that, too. 

"You know it's not true, right? She's wrong. It was a mean thing to say, and it's a bloody lie." 

"It is." 

"Hmm?" 

"It is true, John. I am broken. I don't know a thing about love and sex and relationships. I'm not human. You just haven't realized it yet." 

He's proud at himself for being able to say it all without stuttering. His voice doesn't break. Maybe because he's already all broken. 

"Bulshit. " John growls and then he freezes. He pulls back, searching Sherlock's face, trying to look him in the eyes. "You can't honestly believe that, Sherlock. Do you really think that..." 

The detective finds his eyes. He looks away after a while. Those oceans see right through him. 

"Oh, god. You do, don't you? Christ." 

He huffs out a shaky breath. "Okay. Alright. Now you listen to me, Sherlock Holmes. You are not a monster. You're not weird or unnatural or unnormal. You're not a freak. You're the most human human being I've had ever known, and I've been living with you for a while, so I think I would know. There's nothing broken about the way you are. "

"But I... "

"No." John's fingers get lost in his long hair, and Sherlock decides that he loves the feeling of it. He loves having John this close. He loves John. "You're different. But that does not mean you're broken. It's not wrong to be different. We're all the same boring idiots. You're different, but you're brilliant. All of you is. There's nothing that needs to be fixed." 

"You aren't." 

"Huh?" 

"You're not boring. Or an idiot." 

John laughs, and it sounds like a music to Sherlock's torn soul. 

"Alright. Glad you think so." 

"John?" 

"Yeah?" 

"What if I... If you..." he gulps, unable to continue. 

"What is it, Sherlock?" The silence speaks volume, and the doctor caresses his face gently. "You know you can tell me anything, right?" 

"It's just... You don't know everything about me." 

"Yeah, you're right. I don't. You never cease to amaze me, and I'm never bored." 

"There might be parts of me you wouldn't approve." 

"Doubt it. I don't care. You bloody piss me off most of the time, but you're still the most brilliant nutter I've ever met, and I wouldn't change my life with you for anything." 

"I'm asexual." He blurts out. John's face freezes in a gaping-fish-like look, and the detective tilts his eyes. Of course. What was he thinking? He had to go and ruin everything, didn't he? 

"You can't be serious." 

"I assure you, I am. Wish I wasn't. But I... Don't... I can't... I'm sorry."

"I figured that out, yeah."

"I'm really sorry." 

"How could you possibly believe it would matter to me?"

"Well, I knew you would... Wait... What?"

He looks at him, confused. John smiles softly.

"I don't give a damn what you are. WHO you are is utterly brilliant. You're extraordinary, Sherlock. And if anyone thinks any different of you, they're idiots. It doesn't matter if you don't like people that way. So what, you miss that part of what's expected from you. Most of the people miss so much more you have. "

Sherlock shakes his head, eyes brim with tears.

"But you'll get tired of me, find someone normal... And leave... And I would do anything to be able to be normal, too, trust me, John, I tried, I really did. But I can't. I can't..."  
"Woah. It's okay. It's okay." His faithful doctor pulls him back into his arms, threading fingers through the soft locks of Sherlock's hair. "Not leaving. Not getting tired of you, either. Possibly ever. I like our life."

"I just want you to be happy..." Sherlock sobs into the older man's chest. "But I can't. And your girlfriends, they can, but they hate me... And I'll ruin it all for you. I don't want to ruin your life, John. Why can't I... I... I want you to stay, but I want you happy more. Not enough... Never enough... Why can't I... I... I can't... "

John hugs him tighter as he starts to hyperventilate. He draws silent promises into his back. He whispers him a lullaby of his happiness. He holds the man close until he drops out in his arms, completely exhausted. He kisses his forehead, a silent plan forming in his head.

"You are enough. You'll always be enough. I just didn't know you wanted to be."


	2. Wabi-sabi

Sherlock wakes up to a blinding headache. He's feeling unusually worn out, his eyes sting and his face probably look awful. He remembers yesterday's meltdown and groans, hiding his eyes beneath his left arm.

John is probably already packing his bags.

However, the reality is not what he expects yet again. He finds the ex-soldier making scrambled eggs.

"Morning. Slept well?"

"Mm..." He blinks at him sleepily. "Uh, John..."

"Want some coffee?"

"Yeah. Thank you. But listen, about yesterday..."

"Oh, right. Feeling better?"

"That's not the point. I wanted to apo-... What is that?"

He stops and stares at the porcelain curiosity that John has put in front of him. It's verdigris and old and inwove with golden rays.

"Oh, that. That's your new mug."

"What?"

"Beautiful, right?" he traces the lines. "My grandfather brought it from Japan. They have a thing, they call it 'kintsugi'. It's as much art as it is a way of thinking. Anyway. When something breaks, they stick the pieces back together with a golden glue. They don't repair it, so no one knows, they make the broken edges visible. It creates a whole new masterpiece. They consider it more valuable because of its past. "

Sherlock blinks at him. His pupils dilate, then he looks the mug over, then they focus back on John.

"And you're... You..."

"I'm giving it to you." The blonde man grins at him like it is the most obvious thing in the world. "You know, it's really old. Ancient piece. If I remember correctly, in some cultures, men used to keep things like these for generations, only ever giving them up when they found the person they truly loved, giving it to them."

Sherlock stares and stares and stares at him, and there's something so broken and lost and hopeful in his eyes that John takes pity with him. He takes his hands in his and smiles. 

"I know you're not very good with symbols, so I'm going to say it in proper words, too. You are breathtaking. Amazing. Gorgeous. Smart. Kind. Caring. There's nothing that needs to be fixed, Sherlock. Maybe you're right. Maybe you are a bit broken. But it made you who you are today. And I love you. All of you. All those pieces and all the spider webs of glue holding them together to make you the man I fell for."

The detective's jaw falls. He's looking at his doctor as if he went mad. He's so out of it he doesn't even blink anymore.

"Too much?"

"You... You mean you..."

"Love you? Care for you? Want you in any way possible? Yes, yes and certainly yes."

"Even if I might... Even if I'd never had coitus with you?"

"Yeah. It's not the sole purpose of the relationship. I respect you. I would never ever want to change who you are. I love you for you."

He ends up with arms full of his lanky detective with the last words. The man keeps mumbling something into his neck, and John suspects it's those three words he told him as well. He strokes his back, rocking them back and forth.

"You are impossible, John Watson. And hopelessly romantic. That was the most poetic speech I've ever heard."

"Well. Had to win your heart with something."

The detective smiles. There's no need to say aloud that it's been his for a very long time.


End file.
